


Found Love (where it wasn't supposed to be)

by ToAStranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9044702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: Tom is in his world. He is not supposed to be there.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [love is touching souls (surely you touched mine)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937535) by [ToAStranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger). 



> Secret sequel to Love is Touching Souls.

It is dusk.  The sun has just sunk below the horizon and the room is covered in long, blue shadows.  On the bed, they sit facing one another, legs crossed, hands in their laps.  

There is chaos, somewhere, but he cannot think about it.  Not with this shadow sitting before him with light eyes and a tentative, hopeful smile.  Around his neck, a dark stone  _ whispers _ . 

It is impossibly cold.  It should not be this cold at the height of summer.  

He thinks that if it wasn’t for the soft spells cast upon this room, he’d hear the shouting that he knows is going on downstairs.  There is a man in their house that should not be there.  There is a man in their house that should be dead.  There is a man in their house that has never existed on this plane. 

Harry sucks in a breath, shuddering and soft, and the feathery turnings of longing flutter over under his ribs.  It is a malignant thing, he thinks.  It should not be there.  He knows better. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. 

The man—this shade of a monster—reaches out.  He fingertips brush at Harry’s hand.  Harry curls his fingers away, jaw ticking, and his gaze strays down to his bare hands and the scars there.  

“You aren’t happy to see me.” 

It is not a question, Harry knows, but he wants to answer it.  “No, I—I am.  It’s just… I’m not.” 

“I understand.” 

Harry looks up, sharp and quiet, eyes searching.  “Do you?”

His eyes—Tom’s eyes—soften at the edges; he’s got wrinkles there, Harry realizes.  “Of course, I do.  I know what haunts you, Harry.” 

He laughs, or perhaps sobs.  He shakes, all over, and buries his face in his hands because he doesn’t know what to do with this.  He doesn’t know how to handle this.  It was one thing, saving Tom and saving another world all the trouble of him, but to have him  _ here _ .  To have him in  _ this world _ . 

It is too much.  

It is too little, far too late. 

Warm hands cover his.  Long fingers curl over his and pull until Harry is staring at him through smudged glasses and short breaths.  He doesn’t know when his chest got so small, but it all feels so impossible.  Some nightmare.  Some dream. 

That’s how it always is, isn’t it?  

“Seven years, Harry.” Tom breathes.  “I’ve looked for you for seven years.” 

“I know.” 

“I  _ found _ you.” 

Harry laughs again, breath hitching out, vision blurring.  He reaches up, fingers tentative at Tom’s cheek, and  _ oh _ .  Oh, Tom’s eyes flutter shut and he’s still just as beautiful as he leans into Harry’s touch and lets out a breath that looks like a burden.  

“It’s hardly been six months,” Harry mumbles.  “My birthday is in a week.” 

Dark hair, combed back neat to match the style of a time Tom is no longer part of, falls into Tom’s face as he leans close.  He turns his face into Harry’s touch; kisses his palm as he grips Harry’s wrist with loose fingers.  Kisses the heel, just beneath his thumb, tracing a line with his lips to kiss the curl of his first knuckle.  His grip tightens. 

Harry watches.  He is lost, as he always is with Tom, and he cannot find the words to deny this man the affection he is so freely giving when he has never given to anyone so freely before.  Not even with the Weasleys bickering downstairs, not even with Hermione in a tizzy at the base of the stairs, guarding the way while Ron talks Ginny down.  Not even with his heart racing in his chest, with a Horcrux around his neck, with Tom Riddle sitting in front of him, in his time, in his world. 

Then there are teeth.  Harry gasps as they scrape over the pad of his thumb.  His eyes flutter wide, and Tom’s gaze is caught with his, so dark.  So hungry. 

He’s a starved man, Harry realizes.  

“This isn’t possible,” Harry says.  “You don’t exist here.  You can’t exist here.” 

“I couldn’t keep you, Harry.” Tom rasps, and suddenly he is prowling close, a ridiculous sight in his polo shirt and khakis, leaning in until his words are burning Harry’s skin.  “So I followed you.” 

Another desperate, hitching laugh.  Something tightens in Harry’s throat.  It tastes tinny.  Like longing. 

“You shouldn’t’ve.” 

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Tom tells him and Harry believes it.  “I’ll follow you everywhere.” 

“ _ Tom _ —“ 

“I love you, Harry.” Tom says, their foreheads touching, and he’s not kissing him but Harry knows he wants to.  “I tried to stop.  Time, distance, all of it was on my side.  I could’ve forgotten you.” 

Harry swallows. 

“I couldn’t.  Not you.  Not ever.” 

Harry’s throat works.  “How?” is all he can ask. 

Tom grins, brilliant and sharp, pulling back just enough.  “Magic.” 

“I can’t just— _ you know _ I can’t just—“ 

“Hush,” Tom curves a hand along Harry’s jaw, thumb pressing to his lips.  “I know.  Time.  That’s all I ask.” 

Harry searches again; desperate.  Drowning. 

“ _ Merlin _ ,” Tom hisses and Harry nearly laughs again at the exclamation, so odd coming out of Tom’s mouth, and Harry wonders how else he’s changed apart from the clothes and hair and wrinkles.  “You’re more beautiful than I remember.” 

Harry  _ burns _ .  He surges forward, lips catching Tom’s clumsily, their teeth clicking in a painful way.  Tom doesn’t care.  He tangles his fingers into the mess of Harry’s hair and pulls him closer and then impossibly closer, until he’s falling back and Harry is following, falling on top of him. 

He tastes like snow.  Like snow and ash and Harry moans, fisting a hand into Tom’s shirt.  

There is a knock at the door.  They’re all tangled up in one another, and Harry has to pull back, guilty and filled with shame, face red as he smooths his ratty cotton t-shirt down and Tom props himself up with pursed lips. 

“Harry?” It’s Hermione. 

“Yes?” he asks. 

“Are you--?” she stops, clears her throat, and presses onward.  “Is everything alright? Do you need anything?” 

_ Do you need us _ ? goes unasked.  

Harry knows.  His smile is soft and lopsided then. Tom tilts his head at the look, eyes narrowing.  It’s a look he hasn’t gotten to see before, not in all the hours they spent together, and he thinks he likes it. 

“No,” Harry says.  “No, it’s—I mean, it’s not fine.  Rather bollocksed up, but fine.  I’m fine.” 

There is a sigh.  “If you’re sure.” 

He knows she’s lingering.  He doesn’t mind.  He turns his focus back to Tom, tucking his legs back under him, and keeping his hands in his lap.  He doesn’t trust his treacherous fingers, his body, his heart. 

“If you stay,” Harry finally says.  “I can’t promise you anything.” 

Tom lifts a brow, righting himself.  “No?” 

“No.  This—This is all very impossible.” 

Tom almost seems to curl in on himself, impeccable posture giving way to the worry on his shoulders.  “Impossible.  Difficult.  All manner of dangerous.” 

Harry smiles again, one of those private ones, meant just for Tom.  “Yes.  All of that and more.” 

“I see.” 

“Tom,” Harry dips his head when Tom’s gaze strays, catching his eyes, expression solemn but not condemningly so.  “This is impossible.” 

“I’m getting that, yes.” Tom snaps, shoulders drawing up towards his ears and Harry’s mouth curls in delight at his ruffling; it’s always been too easy. 

“You’re in luck,” Harry’s eyes, green as they are even in the dim light, shine.  “I excel in the impossible.” 

For a moment, there is quiet.  

Tom smiles. 


End file.
